Peripheral Vision
by Neiize
Summary: One point three billion. One point three billion other Asians in the world, and I’m the one who's blessed with a damned mind, a promising future, and right in the middle of worldwide segregation. AU


**Author**: Neiize

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Beyblade or anything else that brings in a sufficient amount of money, for that matter. What I do own is the storyline and plot that go on in my story and the occasional OC, but that is all. I write for the sake of writing, and nothing more.

**Warning**: Slight Language, Racism

**Author's Notes**: I apologize for any spelling or grammar errors you might run into. Truth be told, I really had no time to run this by my beta because I really wanted to get it up soon. It's one of the three infamous muses that have been eating away, and it's like a deep breath of fresh air to have them posted up as soon as possible.

This story's tone is much more serious than what I'm known for writing, but I did try to throw in a joke or two to break the ice. If life's a bitch _now_, think about how horrible it must have been in the late 1950's. It's kind of heartless to make humor out of a horror story.

As of present, it's just a muse. If I get a good amount of positive response, I'll try to work out a plot outline. If not, consider it a very lengthy one-shot.

Note: I'm fully aware of the fact that _Memoirs of a Geisha_ was published in the early 2000's. It's called author's license.

* * *

"Since we're so lucky as to have a different kind of student here in our A.P. program, I'd thought getting the Asian perspective on our novel would be a new twist to things. Ray?"

My lip twists and my eyes narrow to slits. If this fool thinks that my thoughts on a prostitute, no matter what race or religion is the exact same as every other Asian person out there, he has another thing coming to him. Who do I look like, Jackie Chan? I'm not the census of the Asian community. Just because I happen to be the only damn Chinese kid in this damned honours school doesn't mean I have to get asked questions like I'm the Dali Lama.

"I really have no strong moral or ethical opinions, Mr. Dellister."

"Are you sure?" He asks, amused by the fact I could conjure up a complete sentence without help. "It'd really be an advantage if your peers could hear your thoughts. You're one in a million, Ray."

One point three billion. One point three billion other Asians in the world, and I'm the one who was blessed with a damned mind, a promising future, and right in the middle of worldwide segregation.

"I really don't know."

He frowns. "If you're sure."

"I am."

By now every student in the class has taken an interest at staring at me with confused eyes. I pretend not to notice and briefly skim _Memoirs of a Geisha_, suddenly fascinated with the text I've read at least ten times.

"Alright, I want you all to flip to chapter 17. We'll take a look for _onomatopoeia_ and annotations in this chapter, to lead us into subtle texts and contrasts, or as I like to say, reading in between the lines. Let's start off with onomatopoeia. Anyone?"

"Hiss." A blonde calls out audibly.

There's a pause before Mr. Dellister ushers the class into discussion. "Good. Come on, keep 'em coming!"

"Bang," A brunette with strategically spiked hair yawns.

A few papery flips are heard, and more words come out in an outpour.

"Clatter!"

"Buzz."

"Swoosh."

"Rattle," I murmur under my breath.

Twenty-three sets of shoulders turn in unison, pinpointed in my direction, when Mr. Dellister smiles with an awkward nod. The before vibrant room went silent in the two seconds I had silently mumbled a two syllable word.

"That's right," Mr. Dellister's tone mimics that of a helpful tutor trying to desperately please the student paying him fifty an hour.

"…Great." I gulp, and can see my Adam's apple bob in my peripheral vision. They were all still staring at me with ranging expressions, and I felt the need to fill the silence.

"Well… yeah," I stutter.

"Good. Anyone else?"

* * *

My fingers deftly dance across the heavily creased map, trying to once again identify the location of my Honour's Biology class. This school's blueprint is much too large to memorize within a month. By now I've been wandering the hall for an approximate total of 5 minutes, meaning 66 percent of the student body has discovered the incredibly fascinating hobby of watching my every step like a hawk with its prey.

I take carefully strategic steps, watching my peers from the corner of my eye, making sure not to accidently cause some sort of unnecessary rift. From my experience, it seems that when a Chinese boy and a Danish boy stare at another Danish boy's shoe for lengthy amount of time (1 second), the Chinese has some sort of blood to shed in exchange.

And some of the times, that bloodshed is applied in the literal sense.

No, my life hasn't always been a minefield. Approximately five years ago, I couldn't have been happier. I went to an all-Asian institutionalized school, where I was relatively popular and didn't have to peer over my shoulder every other second in fear of being spat at. Even though the education was sub-par, I figured it was enough to sustain me until I got old enough to go somewhere _real_, like college for example.

That was a long, long time ago.

On May 17, 1954, the supreme court unanimously ruled that segregation in public schools was unconstitutional. Over the course of that year, all hell broke loose when more constitutional changes were made; when blacks took front row bus seats without any reprimand, when they were allowed into the same businesses, public clubs, outhouses, supermarkets, and, as first mentioned, schools.

This is where I come in.

The common misconception here is that it's only blacks who are now being mixed in with the white population of North America. If that were the case, I wouldn't be writhing in agony with every step I take in this incredibly lifeless and institutionalized building. Though it's much less publicized, other cultures are being forced to interact with one another, meaning that not only Asians, but Indians and Hispanics and any other minority I am unaware of are going through this social turmoil as well.

Though I've only been in this wretched school for, give or take a month, I'm scared for my well being every minute. More than one occasion have I been involved in fights for no more than squinting my eyes in the general direction of a gargantuan tough guy. Threatening notes, verbal taunting, death glares, bruises, cuts, you name it; any kind of harassment that so far has been thought up have all been used towards me as a torturing tactic.

I make a swift turn to the right-most corridor on the bottom floor, and start pacing myself between the lengthy stairs. It's now become common ritual to ignore all the stares of disgust and curiosity that follow me down my path, but I can't help but let it get to me.

It's more than being a verbal and physical punch bag. It's more than being a social outcast and having no one else's thoughts but your own; it's about usually kind and dedicated educators turning their noses at you. It's about people who think they're higher up on the social hierarchy, and therefore refuse to even acknowledge your presence.

It's about respect. None of which I have.

I catch my breath on the last step, walking out of the stairway corridor and into the long hallway that leads to the four Honor's science courses: biology, chemistry, physics, and earth and space studies.

Truth be told, biology is the most tolerable of the four courses I take each semester; it's much more fascinating than English or P.E., and my teacher, Mrs. MacDonald, is interesting enough to keep my and the 15 other student's attention at bay until the final bell rings.

And just as I expected, the second I take a step into the steely classroom, 15 pairs of pupils direct their focus on me, most of them terrified since myself and three others are the only males present. The girls at this school seem to think of me as some kind of Grinch character. The males tend to look more challenging and cocky, as if daring me to provoke them into a fight which would obviously result in my suspension, and quite possibly expulsion.

And just as I expected, Mrs. MacDonald's honest smile does somewhat keep me less on edge than I usually am. I take my seat in the middle row (the back ones aren't being used), slightly left of center, when the bell rings.

She scans the room quickly, leaving the attendance without a scratch since everyone is here, and shuffles her way around her teacher's lab bench and in front of us. Her trade mark dimple winks when he smiles charmingly.

"Hey, guys. It's Friday. T.G.I.F., right?"

Relieved hoots sound from my peers, and a talkative boy with blonde hair chants, "You know it."

She smiles, then cuts short in concentration. "Oh, that's right. I almost forgot."

Then she tilts her slim frame at my exact degree and direction.

"I remembered, Ray wasn't here in the beginning of the year when everyone introduced themselves."

If she's about to do what I think she's about to do, my respect for her just air-dived out the window.

She turns and directs her eyes to me, and I try my best to somehow rearrange the blood vessels on my cheek to spell out "Don't do it", so that when I blow out my cheeks and they press against the thin sheet that is my skin, she gets the message.

"Well, come on. Get up here and tell us about yourself."

Either the plan didn't work as well as I thought it did or the woman's an illiterate.

I instantly feel like objecting to the idea, but my manly pride finally decides to make its sloth-like appearance. I slowly haul myself up and walk in front on the class, hesitation obvious in my steps.

I can see the reflective little crest on my school's uniform that proudly represents every Dudley Right Academy student wearing it thanks to the fluorescent lighting, and I gulp.

"My name is Raymond Kon," I say solemnly, no inflection in my voice. "I enjoy music, playing sports, and reading in moderation."

After an awkward pause, Mrs. MacDonald somehow infers that this process is enjoyable for me, and pushes it forward. "What do you _dis_like?"

Segregation is the first word that pops up into my mind. Thank the Lord I'm the type to think before I leap. "Math."

I hear a snort erupt from the silent mass of students, and then a very masculine voice taunts, "He's a chink. He should _love_ it."

My jaw sets stubbornly, and my fists automatically tense into a tight ball. _Control_, I reprimand. _Don't let a racist buffoon ruin your chances of a future. God knows the principal will kick you out of here without a second thought. _

"What was that?" Mrs. MacDonald asks, acid in her tone.

A small chorus of gasps are heard as everyone, including me, are shocked that she is risking her reputation defending the likes of me against a white student. Everyone's eyes are dead focused on our teacher's stubbornly crossed arms and the challenge beckoning in her eyes. I've been used to getting no help from the staff around here, and someone suddenly sticking their neck on the chopping board strikes me as either incredibly kind or incredibly stupid.

"Nothing…" this time I can clearly read the face of the boy who had uttered the hate. As with every other student here, I don't take the time to learn their names as they do not deserve it, but it's quite beneficial to me to recognize faces.

It tells me who to watch out for.

"I thought so." She responds in the same tone, briskly picking up a stack of papers cut horizontally down the middle. "I marked your quizzes."

I exhale in relief, glad she didn't drag the situation too far from sanity. She walks around, silently pressing the quizzes onto the perfectly polished lamination of our desks, including mine. I briefly flip it over and note the 100 percent, and tuck it into the pocket of my three ringed binder.

After many squeals of joy and moans of agony from the results, the class is called to order. "Alright, if you guys could just flip to chapter 9.2…"

* * *

"Hey."

I ignore the urge to turn around and see if he was addressing me. I've gotten used to knowing he _wasn't_ talking to me, because _no one_ talks to me. Even out here, after school on the park benches where so much socializing happens, I've learned to tune out all the chatty voices and magnify the possibly-intimidating ones. I keep focus and continue jotting down the proper solutions to the pre-made Punnett squares.

"Hey, I'm talking to you."

So, if one parent is dominant homozygous and the other is recessive homozygous, the first generation offspring would be heterozygous and express whichever dominant allele is present. Therefore the second generation…

A firm grip latches onto my shoulder, and I instantly shoot up and turn around in a defensive position, my hands in loose fists. This isn't the first time someone's tried to pick a fight with me.

I glare at the fairly attractive boy in front of me, his hands up in the air as to show peace. His odd dust-coloured hair brushes over his ears and his cloudy lilac eyes show no trace of causing me harm. I calm my stance, but keep my hands balled.

"Peace," he says softly. I know he doesn't mean to make himself look more intimidating by raising his hands and flexing the beefy muscle, but I can't help but be suspicious.

"What do you want?" I ask in a restrained tone.

"Your help."

My eyebrows rise to my hairline as I wait for his explanation.

"I'm in your senior Bio class." He drops his hands to his side and emphasizes each word as if he was talking to a caveman.

"Yes, I know."

He seems somewhat shocked that I can present myself with a civilized tone, and continues. "I'm also almost failing that senior Bio class."

I smile, catching the drift easily. This is almost too good to be true. A stupid, pompous white idiot wants _my_ help? An _Asian_? A _chink_?

"Are you asking me to help you?"

"I'm asking you to tutor me."

Ah, yes, there _is_ a difference. At this school, I've learned 'help' is the word that actually tents the concept '_let me copy your homework_'. Tutor quite simply means '_assist me with my studies'_.

"There are tutors you can hire here at a phenomenal price of 'very expensive'. I'm sure they'll be able to facilitate your needs." I say this briskly, wanting to take my seat and finish my work, but afraid to have my back to him.

"I've _tried_ them," he groans, sounding exasperated. "They don't care if I get it or not. They just want to get paid."

"Do you know my name?"

"What?"

"Do you know my name?" I repeat, my tone more challenging.

"Sure. You're Ray. Everyone knows your name."

Also see: everyone has your name on their hit list.

"Look, I have absolutely no interest in spending any unnecessary time with anyone who goes to this school. I'm here to get my education, and that's all. Nothing more, nothing less."

"I'm…" he paused. "Skeptic, too. I don't like segregation. I hate it, to be honest. But you seem civilized. Hell, you seem smarter than MacDonald herself. I just want some help. Believe me, I wouldn't ask you if I wasn't desperate. Being a social outcast is not my thing."

I didn't even consider it. "I can't help you."

"Do you know _my_ name?"

I don't respond.

"Well, do you?" He prods, questioning me with his eyes.

"What's the point of asking that?"

"It goes both ways," he says, anger seeping through his tone. "We hate you because we think you're scum. You hate me because you think _I'm_ scum. Scum doesn't have a name. Scum doesn't have anything. So prove me wrong, and tell me you know my name. Because obviously I don't think you're scum if I took the time to remember yours."

"That argument is completely flawed and stupid," I fire back, biting on the frost that threatens to cool over my voice. "I know Adolf Hitler's name, and he's one of the biggest pieces of scum known to man kind. So don't sit there and preach to me like you know what you're talking about."

He stays quiet, looking defeated and frustrated at the same time.

I direly want to turn around to pack up and get out of here, but the fear that he may pull out some kind of weapon is lodged into my stomach, so I stay perfectly still and glare at him.

After a bout of silence, he looks into my eyes with a trace of apology in them. "Hitler's not the biggest scum, he _is_ scum. I'm not scum, and you're not scum… and I'm saying the word scum too much." He blows air nosily and frowns. "What I'm trying to say is… maybe Hitler is scum, and every other slightly not-decent person isn't. What if scum is the worst of the worst, and society's been throwing the word around too much?"

"If by society you mean white people, then I completely agree."

He closes his eyes in exasperation. "All right, you get that one. But you understand what I'm saying, right?" He opens his eyes to stare at me.

"Just leave me alone."

He groans, loosing all patience. "Look, listen to me, I just-"

"What are you trying to say?" I interject, cutting straight to the core of the matter. "_Sorry?_ Is that it? Are you apologizing for the fascist and pig-headed ways of your people?"

"…Yeah."

I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and take two large steps which place me directly in front of him. When my eyes open, I can feel the hatred that had been building up over the past years burning in my eyes, threatening to engulf anyone in my path.

"Fuck you."

Against my better judgment I turn around, and messily shove my binders into my knapsack, my heart pounding against my ribcage as if the membrane holding them to my body had suddenly dissolved. I turn around again, seeing him staring at me with a sympathetic expression. I'm breathing heavily out of fear, and it's obvious by his facial expression that he can tell.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said evenly. "I'm not like them."

And before I know it I'm taking off in the direction of my home, running faster than I ever have before in my entire life. The adrenaline pulsing through my veins facilitate me with my abundance of energy as I dart through each street effortlessly, and only stop when I reach the paved driveway to my home. A onslaught on paranoid thoughts attack my sanity: _he's following you, you could die. Run, just keep running, and you'll be safe._

I stare at the classic white picket fence, breathing heavily, my lids suddenly heavy. My legs droop as I drag them up the steps and to the porch. Fogginess drifts away from my command center, and my breathing slows until it reaches a normal rate. I stare into the setting sun in the horizon, my stomach churning with the unnecessary fear I've been faced with all my life.

If 1955 isn't the year of my death, then the rest of my life certainly won't be worth living.

Not when you're a minority.

* * *

Read _and_ review, please.


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